


From the Island to the Snow

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cuba comes to visit Canada in winter. Probably not the best idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Island to the Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ December 24, 2010. 
> 
> Holiday fic for technoranma! Her request was for Cuba/Canada, with Cuba visiting Canada instead of the other way around.

  
When Cuba visits Canada for a change, just seeing Canada puts him in a better mood. Flying over the United States just put him in a foul mood just because he hated to think he was sharing the same airspace as that guy. And when he finally lands, it’s way too cold and Cuba has to dig around for the sweater Canada warned him he’d need to pack. Still, Canada stands by the baggage claim, frowning slightly and burrowed into the sweater he’s never had an occasion to wear until that moment, dreading walking out where he can see _snow_ and then he hears someone twittering behind him and clearing his throat politely.   
  
Cuba turns slowly, and catches sight of the blond man smiling widely and waving at him. Cuba flares up immediately, feeling his brows furrow and his entire body tense up and he’s going to punch America if he dares say one word about his sweater—  
  
“Bastard, what are you doing here?” he shouts, and some people waiting for their bags stop and stare as Cuba stomps over towards the other nation and this nation looks vaguely confused and then horrified.  
  
“No, no, no! It’s me! It’s Canada!” he shouts, waving his hands in front of his face, flinching in preparation for a punch to a face. The punch never comes because Cuba freezes and realizes that, duh, of course it’s _Canada_ coming to meet him in a Canadian airport and not his stupid, obnoxious brother.   
  
“Oh,” Cuba says, as way of apology and uncurls his fists. He lifts his hand instead to scratch at his chin, nonchalantly. “Hey.”   
  
Canada slowly drops his hands, body relaxing now that he knows he doesn’t have to dodge and evade bodily harm. He gives Cuba a slightly perplexed look. “Why would you think it was my brother coming to pick you up? You knew I’d be coming!”   
  
“When you wear a hat like that it gets confusing,” Cuba mutters, and then scratches at the back of his neck. “Sorry.”   
  
Canada grabs at his hat, perplexed still, and tugs at it slightly. It’s a beanie that covers most of his forehead, hiding that telltale curl of his from view, squashed beneath the fabric. He adjusts his glasses, frowning.   
  
“It’s okay. I guess,” he says, and then smiles, “You didn’t hit me this time, at least!” This happy revelation seemed to dawn in the realization that Cuba _almost hit him in an airport._ He narrows his eyes, briefly. “Just don’t forget again. I don’t want to have to deal with this every time we see each other during your visit. It’s _Canada_! Just remember that. My brother won’t show up so long as he knows you’re here.”   
  
Cuba is about to say something when he catches sight of his bag out of the corner of his eye, and lunges to grab it before it gets lost in the sea of people crowded around the baggage claim. He hauls it out of the conveyer belt and to his side, feeling awkward wearing the sweater still—it’s a bit small and feels tight around his upper arms.   
  
“Actually,” he hears Canada talking to himself, “He might show up just to piss us off. He likes to do that.”   
  
Cuba feels his eyebrow twitch.   
  
Canada undoubtedly notices it because he says, quickly, looking flustered, “But he’s really busy right now, I’m sure he’ll call if he does want to show up and then I can tell him no…”  
  
Cuba looks ready to murder someone. Canada seems to realize this because he clears his throat and fiddles in his pocket for his car keys. “Let’s go, yeah?”  
  
“Is it cold?” Cuba asks, eyeing the windows where outside he can see that a light snow has started to fall. He picks at his sweater with thinly veiled annoyance.   
  
“It’ll be warm back at my house,” Canada says and smiles widely. “I guess it’s too cold for ice cream, but what about hot chocolate? And we can sit around and bitch about my brother as much as you want. Or not at all. Whatever.”  
  
The simple joys of visiting. It is the first time he’s come to Canada. Usually Canada comes to his house and they spend the days enjoying the sunshine and mojitos. Now it is winter in Canada and Cuba thinks he should have put off visiting Canada until the summer, when the temperature would have been more bearable. It’s not a bad thing visiting Canada, though, and hot chocolate sounds nice.   
  
“And I have coats you can borrow,” Canada is saying. “Though I don’t know if they’ll be big enough for you…” He smiles, regardless. “If it does, we can talk in the snow. I can show you around.”  
  
Cuba nods his head absently, but when they walk out of the airport and into the cold air and Cuba sees his breath mist, he starts to second-guess his friendship with Cuba. Maybe he should have insisted that Canada visit him instead, this time. But it’s too late now, and right now the idea of wearing Canada’s jacket seems very nice. They walk briskly towards Canada’s car, Canada huddled into his own jacket and Cuba squeezing up next to him as comfortably as he can, trying to get at least some body warmth.   
  
At least the walk to the car is short. Canada throws Cuba’s bag into the backseat and climbs into the driver seat as Cuba huddles in the front seat, cursing his sweater to high heaven for not being nearly warm enough.   
  
“Sorry it’s cold,” Canada says. “I promise my house is nice and warm. And I can put an extra blanket on your bed tonight.”   
  
“Hm,” Cuba grunts, and nods his head. “Thanks.”   
  
“I’m glad you came,” Canada says, once they reach a stoplight, smiling up at Canada with such warmth that Cuba momentarily forgets his frustrations at inadequate sweaters and impossibly cold snow.   
  
He shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah.” And he adds, finding it to be the absolute truth, if it meant Canada would smile like that, “Me too.”


End file.
